Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [66]
He stood in the gateway with a sense of acute disappointment. He had steeled himself for the meeting, and now he would have to do it again tomorrow. He had no idea where she lived or how to find her, and no other avenue of investigation to pursue to fill in the time until she might be here again.
“Mr. Monk!”
He swung around. She was there behind him. He was so pleased to see her he did not notice what she was wearing, except that it was pale and faintly patterned. It was her face he watched, her amazing, dark-fringed eyes, and he knew he was smiling. It probably misled her, as if he had good news to tell, and even though that was a lie, he could not alter it. The sheer relief bubbled up inside him.
“Miss Harcus! I . . . I was afraid you would not come,” he said hastily. It was not really what he meant, but he could think of nothing more exact.
She searched his face. “Have you news?” she said almost breathlessly. He noticed only now how pale she was. He could feel the emotion in her as he could in himself, tight, curled like a spring ready to break.
“No.” He said the word more brusquely than he had intended to, because he was annoyed with himself for misleading her. “Except that I have found nothing out of order in Mr. Dalgarno’s conduct.” He stopped. There was no relief in her eyes, and he had expected it. It was as if she could not believe him. If anything, the tension in her increased. Under the fine fabric of her dress her shoulders were rigid, her breathing so intensely controlled that merely watching her he could feel it himself. She started to shake her head very slowly from side to side. “No . . . no . . .”
“I have searched everything!” he insisted. “There may be irregularity in the purchase of land . . .”
“Irregularity?” she said sharply. “What does that mean? Is it honest or not? I am not completely ignorant, Mr. Monk. People have gone to prison for ’irregularities,’ as you call them, if they were intentional and they have profited from them. Sometimes even if they were not intended but they were unable to prove that.”
An elderly gentleman hesitated in his step and glanced at Katrina as if uncertain what the tone of her voice might mean. Was it anger or distress? Should he intervene? He decided not, and walked on with considerable relief.
Two ladies smiled at each other and passed by a few feet away.
“Yes, I know,” Monk said very quietly, old, sickening memories coming back to him as he stood in the sunlit gardens. “But fraud has to be proved, and I can find nothing.” Katrina drew in her breath as if to interrupt again, but he hurried on. “The sort of thing I am thinking of is routing a railway line through one piece of land rather than another to oblige a farmer or the owner of an estate so as not to divide his land. There might have been bribery, but I would be very surprised if it is traceable. People are naturally discreet about such things.” He offered her his arm, aware that by standing in one place they were making themselves more noticeable.
She grasped at it till he could feel her fingers through the fabric of his jacket.
“But the crash!” she said with panic rising in her voice. “What about the dangers? That is not just a matter of”—she gulped—“of making personal profit that is questionable. It’s . . .” She whispered the word. “Murder! At least morally.” She pulled him to a stop again, glaring with a depth of horror in her eyes that frightened him.
“Yes, I know,” he agreed gently, turning to face her. “But I have walked the track myself, Miss Harcus, and I know about railways. There is nothing in land acquisition, even bad land, that